


A Time To Wait

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves, Fords of Bruinnen, Gen, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Morgul wounding, Prancing Pony, Rivendell | Imladris, Visions, Weathertop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was happening in Rivendell as Frodo travelled from The Shire?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The settings, characters and main events of this story all belong to the imagination of JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson. They are not mine and I would not presume to lay claim to them. I am borrowing them strictly for the non-profit making purpose of fan fiction.
> 
> In this story, in the attempt to bring a little drama to the tale, I have assumed a link between Vilya and the One Ring that I believe was not intended by JRRT and would, if taken to it’s logical conclusion, cause problems later in the tale. You will also find a merciless mix of book and movie version. I am therefore labelling it AU.

Biting his lip against the icy pain in his fingers, Elrond drew the shard out and dropped it in the earthenware bowl that Gandalf held ready. The wizard left the room quickly and Elrond bent to cleanse the neat incision and make his stitches, confident that Mithrandir would undertake the necessary action to ensure the metal’s destruction. From the other side of the large bed, Sam watched.

“Will he be alright now?”

Elrond did not lift his eyes from his work. “He will begin to heal, now that the splinter has been removed.” He did not continue his train of thought out loud for even he was not sure how far that healing would go. Sam seemed content with the reply however.

The elven lord glanced at Frodo’s pale face once more. The eyes were closed but he knew that when they opened they would be the deepest blue of a summer sky. His was such a finely structured face and too small a frame to be the nexus of these events; the fate of Middle-earth resting in the soul of this fragile mortal.

Perhaps they were asking too much of him. But then, that question had already been considered months ago.

 

000000

 

Elrond motioned Gandalf to one of the armchairs by the fire and handed him a glass of wine, smiling as he turned to hand one to his foster son and then pouring one for himself. Aragorn rose from the other armchair in the room and offered it to the only father he had ever known, but Elrond shook his head and leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, glass in hand, and his foster son resumed his seat. Long considered an adult by mortal standards Aragorn felt like a child beside these two who had seen so many centuries roll by.

Outside, spring had arrived in the sheltered valley and trees were showing the green haze of opening buds. The late March air was still cool, however, and the three were gathered before a small fire in the private study of the Lord of Imladris. More formal meetings were held in a larger, more imposing, study but those who knew Elrond well were usually invited here.

Elrond sipped his wine, pleased with the crisp cool dryness of it. He must remember to arrange for more to be ordered. Elrond recognised his mind’s attempt to slide away from considering the conversation that was about to begin. 

For so many centuries he had been waiting for the One Ring to be found, so that it could be undone and he could leave these shores. And now, Mithrandir said that it might have been discovered, at last. But what would be the cost of its destruction? How many lives would be lost in the battle this time? 

“Adar?” Estel’s voice cut through his reverie.

“I am sorry, Aragorn. Mithrandir, please repeat for me the words on the scroll you found in the great library of Minas Tirith.”

Mithrandir took a sip from his own glass, deeming the wine too dry for his taste, and his eyes grew distant as he began to recite from memory. 

 

“It was hot when I first took it, hot as a glede, and my hand was scorched, so that I doubt if ever again I shall be free of the pain of it. Yet even as I write it is cooled, and it seemeth to shrink, though it loseth neither its beauty nor its shape. Already the writing upon it, which at first was as clear as red flame, fadeth and is now only barely to be read. It is fashioned in an elven script of Eregion, for they have no letters in Mordor for such subtle work; but the language is unknown to me. I deem it to be a tongue of the Black Land, since it is foul and uncouth. What evil it saith I do not know; but I trace here a copy of it, lest it fade beyond recall. The Ring misseth, maybe, the heat of Sauron’s hand, which was black and yet burned like fire, and so Gil-galad was destroyed; and maybe were the gold made hot again, the writing would be refreshed. But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the works of Sauron the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.” 

 

Elrond set down his glass, deciding that he had lost all interest in its contents. “I must confess that I was not aware that the Ring was engraved but I believe I have heard the words of which you speak.”

Elf and wizard paused, each seeming lost in their own thoughts. In the empty space, Aragorn looked from one to the other, finally deciding that if he did not ask he would never know. “What is engraved upon it?”

The wizard merely looked across at Loremaster Elrond, who replied, “I will not speak it in the tongue in which it is graven, but it translates as . . . One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them.” The corners of Elrond’s mouth turned down, as though the words themselves had tasted unpleasant and he reached down for his glass to take a long swallow of wine.

Aragorn had not touched his own wine and he looked now at Gandalf. “And this is the ring that you believe Bilbo found and has passed on to his nephew?”

“Yes, I think it may be. And now we have a test to confirm it.”

The man sighed. “It is a dangerous trinket to be left in the care of such an innocent. He must surely be relieved of it as soon as possible.”

Elrond’s head snapped up and he glanced across at the mortal, eyes narrowing, then he dismissed the thought. No, the Ring could not be affecting Estel from this distance. The elf calmed his jangled nerves. This would never do. A little alarmed at the intensity of the gaze, Aragorn continued.

“He is defenceless against such an enemy, if wind of its discovery reaches the Nine.” When Elrond raised a brow he explained. “When I met Gandalf he told me that the Nine had been seen riding forth once more from Minas Morgul.”

Elrond winced at the name of that foul den. “And so the Shadow grows once more. Always it seems it fades only to deepen again and take on new form. Who will stand against it this time?” For the first time that Aragorn remembered, his foster father sounded old and weary.

Gandalf’s beard twitched and his voice took on a hard edge, determined to shake Elrond out of his growing melancholy. “No-one will stand against it if Sauron regains the One Ring. The first thing we must do is secure it as best we can, before the Nine discover it. Then we can consider what must be done to destroy the Dark Lord of Mordor.”

For a moment wizard and elf lord locked eyes and it seemed to the mortal that the room was suddenly grown too small and he was pressed up against the wall, trying hard to draw breath. Then Elrond’s gaze dropped and Aragorn inhaled.

When his foster father continued his tone was brisk and business like. “You will need a place to hold it until a decision can be made on our next action. I surmise that is the reason you have sought me out.”

Gandalf nodded. “Indeed. Rivendell is the closest refuge to the Shire . . . one of the few places in Middle-earth capable of standing against the Nine.”

“Against the Nine, perhaps. But against the full might of Sauron’s forces? No. You may bring it here but then a decision must be made on where it is to be taken next and by whom,” Elrond announced, firmly. “And you already know my opinion on that, Mithrandir.”

“Indeed I do. And I am inclined to agree with you. But let us take the first step. I must establish that we are dealing with the One Ring and, if we are, I must make arrangements to deliver it here, in secret.”

Aragorn looked across at the istari. “Why do you not simply explain to the hobbit. He will probably hand it over, willingly. They are a peaceful people and I cannot see him wanting anything to do with it if you explain its history.”

Two voices spoke in unison. “No.”

It was Elrond who explained patiently to the mortal. “The One Ring gains dominion over those who possess it by offering that which they most desire . . . but it then twists that thing until it serves only evil. The greater the power of the one who wears it and the greater is the capacity for evil. Were Gandalf to possess it, even for a little while, he would become as powerful as Sauron himself . . . perhaps even more so. No . . . Frodo must be persuaded to bring the Ring here. It would seem that hobbits are less easily swayed by its suggestions, if Bilbo’s possession of it is any indication.”

“And even he was falling under its spell at the end,” Gandalf pointed out. “How is he, by the way?”

Aragorn saw his father’s face soften. “You may judge for yourself, for I am sure he has already learned of your arrival and will not let you leave again without seeing him.” His face grew serious. “He will want any news you can give him of his nephew.”

The wizard nodded. “I will say nothing of the Ring as yet. After all, we are not sure that this is the One Ring.”

“Then we had better make sure, and soon,” Aragorn interjected, ever one for action. “I am overdue to check on the Shire and Bree and I believe a closer eye should be kept if the Nine are abroad. I would travel with you Gandalf, if you will have me?”

“I would welcome your company on this journey.”

Elrond smiled. Mortals. Always so hasty. But then, they had so short a time in which to fit in all of life’s experiences. And Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, had much reason to see this particular chain of events set in motion


	2. A Scent Of Roses

Elrond looked up as the door opened silently to admit his daughter. In her hands was a vase with the last of the late blooming roses from her mother’s garden. It was typical of Arwen that she would want one of the first things Frodo saw when he woke up to be flowers. She placed the vase on the table by his bed, laying a gentle hand upon the pale cheek, before smiling at Sam and leaving as silently as she had come. At her smile Sam’s cheeks had turned as pink as the blossoms at his side.

In the morning the room would be filled with the perfume of roses. Celebrian had insisted that she would plant no rose, however beautiful to look at, unless it had a perfume. This particular bloom had a scent too sweet for Elrond’s liking. His favourite flowered earlier in the summer.

 

00000

 

Inhaling the light scent of cloves from the pale apricot tinted rose in his fingers, Elrond looked up at the sound of booted feet crossing the lawn. Elladan and Elrohir, their hair windswept and clothes still coated with the dust of travel, strode towards him. Their father spread his arms wide to accept first one and then the other into his embrace.

“Welcome home. I will send for food and you can sit and eat with me while your baths are being prepared.” He laid an arm about each matching shoulder and turned them towards the house. “There are cool drinks on the terrace. It is hot and thirsty weather for travelling.”

“Oh yes.” Elrohir sighed. “I could drink the Bruinen dry.”

His twin laughed. “I think I would rather bathe in it first. But a cool drink would be welcome.”

Once both brothers were lounging comfortably in the shade of the terrace, second glass of pear cordial in hand, Elrond broached the subject of their journey.

“What news of Mithrandir and the hobbit?”

Elladan looked at his older twin and, as always, it was Elrohir who spoke first.

“We met Gandalf at the borders of the Shire on the afternoon of the 27th of June. He was worried when we passed on the news of war and defeat in Gondor and the spreading of the Black Shadow.”

Their father grimaced. “It does not bode well. I sense many roads drawing together.” He settled in a chair, unconsciously twirling the rose between his finger and thumb.

“He asked us to tell you that he has seen the letters of flame and that Frodo will be leaving the Shire in the autumn,” added Elladan. “I take it that “letters of flame” will mean something to you.”

Elrond laid the rose carefully upon the table, feeling a great weight settle heavily upon his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the blue sky, noting a few small clouds beginning to gather above the mountain peaks to the south.

“And so what we hoped for and feared has happened,” he murmured. 

Elrohir sighed. “Ada . . . it is us. You need not talk in riddles. You do not need to impress us with the “Lord of Imladris” face. We have delivered our messages and I think we deserve to be let in on what is going on. From the behaviour of both you and Mithrandir, not to mention the unannounced and sudden disappearance of our foster brother, I can only assume that something very important is afoot.”

“Something that brings the Nine to this corner of Middle-earth, so far from their Master. Will you not please share the burden, Ada? We want to help” added Elladan.

Elrond looked from one to the other wishing, not for the first time, that he had insisted that all his children leave with their mother when she sailed West. But he had been too wrapped in his own grief at the time to consider such practicalities. And then the twins had taken up their personal vendetta with the orcs and the opportunity had passed. 

He drew himself back from reverie to find himself held by two pairs of grey eyes. Strange that all his children had inherited their father’s grey eyes and dark hair. But their love of life and lightness of spirit they had from Celebrian. Elrond would not have it otherwise, however . . . as his wife had so succinctly put it, “One sombre lore master is enough for any family.”

“Adar?”

Taking a deep breath, Elrond laid his hands lightly upon the arms of his chair. “The One Ring has been found.”

It seemed to the twins that for one moment the whole world paused. “ ‘The Ring? Sauron’s ring?” Elrohir asked in the resulting silence.

“Yes. It is in the keeping of Bilbo’s nephew, Frodo Baggins.” Somewhere a bird sang, oblivious to the import of the words of the three elves seated at the other end of the garden.

“Bilbo’s ring is the One Ring?” Elladan asked, needing to hear it confirmed because his mind seemed unable to grasp it.

His father could only sympathise with his disbelief. “Yes.”

“Should he not be got out of the Shire, now? Frodo has no defence against the Nine. Surely the sooner it is safe the better. To wait until the autumn seems to court danger,” Elrohir demanded.

“Frodo has Gandalf, and most people would consider that defence enough,” Elrond censured mildly. “Our best defence at this time is secrecy. Frodo cannot just disappear. Two such events in the Shire would quickly reach the ears of our enemy. The Master of Bag End will need time to set his affairs in order and slip away quietly.” When Elrohir opened his mouth to interject his father stared him down. “If Gandalf says it will take until the autumn, then that is the time it will take.” The tone of the Lord of Imladris brooked no argument and Elrohir’s mouth snapped shut.

“I take it they will be bringing it here?” Elladan asked, breaking the silent tension.

His father nodded. “Yes. We have work to do. The borders must be secured but it should be done quietly. From the outside, no one must suspect that there is any difference in our defences. We cannot stand against the might of Sauron so we must ensure that we do nothing to attract his attention.”

His piercing gaze held both of them. “And you must say nothing of the Ring. Not even to our own people. Say only that we have had word that the Nine are returned to our land and that is why we take extra precautions.”

“Then we had better get started,” Elrohir announced, surging to his feet.

His father’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Well, I think you will have time for a bath and some food first.”


	3. At The Inn Of The Prancing Pony

AT THE INN OF THE PRANCING PONY

 

Elrond smoothed the counterpane over the small chest as Sam fastened the buttons on Frodo’s nightshirt. The new wound was healing well and they would not have to change the dressing again before morning. Arwen collected the last of the soiled bandages and left, placing a soft kiss on her father’s cheek before she turned to go.

Hobbit and elf settled in chairs at opposite sides of the large bed. Frodo lay still, deep in healing sleep and totally unaware that Sam held his cold left hand in both of his. Or perhaps he was not so unaware, for he sighed and his head turned a little to the left on his pillow.

The healer touched fingers to the pulse in Frodo’s wrist for a moment, pleased to hear it steady, if not still a little faint. He let his hand fall away to rest upon the embroidered counterpane. It had been stitched by Celebrian many years ago. Arwen’s love of embroidery had come from her mother, no doubt. She could often be found at her frame in the evenings.

 

00000

 

Arwen looked up at the sound of breaking glass and pushed her embroidery frame aside to rush to her father as he fell to hands and knees amongst the splinters of his shattered wineglass.

She threw herself down at his side and lifted him to lean against her, biting her lip when she saw the large shard of glass protruding from his right palm. She would tend to that later. Pushing his hair out of his face, Arwen looked into her father’s eyes. They were wide and unfocussed, the grey iris’ swallowed by black pupils. She had seen him in vision trance before, but never unannounced like this. Arwen knew enough to know that there was nothing she could do but stay with him until the vision ended and she drew him to lean against her shoulder, holding his hand away so that the blood did not drip on his clothes.

 

Surprise . . . fear . . . terror . . . horror. Black shadows moving in . . . an eye . . . pupil slitted like a cat’s . . . wreathed in flame . . . the feeling of being pinned, like a moth to a collector’s board.

(Fight, Little One. Take it off. You must resist.)

Muscles paralysed with fear twitching . . . small hand moving slowly . . . so slowly . . . towards the gold ring on his left hand . . . so slowly . . . fingers closing about it . . . pulling . . . 

(That’s it, Little One. Resist.)

Pulling . . . the metal band moves . . . straining . . . it is moving . . . moving . . . 

 

Elrond gasped, sagging into his daughter’s arms and she held him, stroking his hair until she felt him draw breath and make to pull away. Arwen loosened her grip and looked into her father’s face, in time to see the pupils narrow and the colour return to his cheeks.

“Achh!” He looked away, his attention suddenly drawn to his hand.

“Are you all right, Ada?”

“I would be, were it not for the large hole in my hand. The body was designed with only a certain number of orifices, and I do not remember seeing mention of one in the hand in all my studies.” Elrond produced a kerchief from some hidden pocket in his robes and, snatching the glass out, pressing the square of silk to the wound.

Arwen leaned back on her heels and smiled. “Do not mention it, Ada. You are welcome.”

Elrond looked up, his features softened. “I am sorry, child. Thank you. It disturbs me when the visions take me unawares. Truly, I am well, or at least I will be if you will assist me with the dressing of this cut.”

A few minutes later he was sitting propped up by pillows on his bed, his hand held over a basin of warm water while Arwen cleansed the wound. He hissed and resisted the temptation to snatch the hand away when his daughter dribbled some water into the open cut.

“I am sorry, Ada. I just wanted to make sure that there were no slivers of glass left. It looks clean enough, though I think it will need some stitches.”

Elrond took one of the dry pieces of cloth and dabbed at the wound. “Yes. Two should suffice. Do you need any assistance?”

Arwen arched one eyebrow, in imitation of her father. “I am the daughter of Elrond of Imladris. I believe I can manage to tie a couple of stitches.”

Settling back against his pillows, Elrond made no comment, closing his eyes as she removed the basin, laid his hand upon a folded towel, and began to apply a liquid to numb the flesh.

As his daughter worked, Elrond reviewed every detail he could remember of the vision. He was used to such things. As wielder of Vilya he had often had visions. Like Galadriel’s mirror the Ring of Air could show him events of the present or the future and, also like the mirror, it was not always clear which they were or whether any action could be taken to avoid them.

This vision was different. It was as though Vilya were linked to The One in the moment that Frodo slipped it on his finger. And yet, Bilbo had worn it many times and Elrond had felt nothing. And Gollum had worn it before that. Elrond shuddered as he considered what sights he may have been subjected to if he had been linked to the Ring then. But then, Sauron had not been alerted to the fact that it had been found or in what area of Middle-earth to search for it. Gollum had changed all that and the Eye of Sauron was now fixed firmly northward.

The fact that Frodo had put on the Ring implied that Mithrandir had not yet managed to meet up with him. What had drawn the wizard away from Frodo, Elrond could not imagine. No word had been heard or sight given of the istari since the end of June but the Bruinen had brought sense of his crossing the Gwathlo two days ago. Why Gandalf should be travelling so far from the Shire at such an important time, Elrond could not fathom.

He ignored the slight sensations of tugging in his hand as Arwen continued her ministrations and turned again to the vision. Where was Frodo? 

Shunting aside the emotions, the elf concentrated on the images in the background. They were difficult to make out for, caught as Frodo was in the other world, the things of this world appeared as shadows, vague shapes in a mist. 

Frodo was lying on his back on a floor and above him towered the shapes of many people. They were too tall for hobbits. Not the Shire, then. Where would someone unused to travel in the wild make for? An inn perhaps? Bree? It was at the crossroads.

Elrond played the scene once more in his mind and . . . there . . . he saw what he had hoped to find. A black boot mended at the toe with a piece of dark brown leather. Just on the edge of Frodo’s line of sight. Elrohir had made fun of the fact that the patch did not match and Elladan had pointed out that, soon enough, the mud and weather would fade it to the same muddy grey as the rest of the outfit worn by their foster brother.

Estel had found Frodo.

Elrond drew a deep breath and opened his eyes in time to see Arwen fastening off the bandage. He closed his hand lightly, wincing as the stitches pulled.

“Thank you, daughter.”

Arwen cleared away her equipment and spread a blanket over his legs. 

“Rest for a little while, Ada.”

Elrond smiled. “I believe I will. But would you send Elladan to me please. I need to discuss something with him.” They would need to put into effect the plans they had made for the valley’s defence months ago.

Arwen shook her head. Getting her father to rest was the most difficult of tasks.

“Yes Adar.”

CONT


	4. It Is Precious To Me

IT IS PRECIOUS TO ME

Elrond looked up from his book at the sound of light snoring. On the chair next to Sam, Bilbo was dozing. The healer was not surprised that he had nodded off. It was very late and the room was warm and quiet.

Sam collected a blanket from a heap at the foot of the bed and draped it over the sleeping figure of his former master then returned to take the hand of his present master.

His movement caused the candles on Frodo’s bedside table gutter slightly, sending flickering shadows across the room and distracting Elrond from his book once more.

00000

 

Elrond looked up from his paper, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes against the flicker of the candle flame. Elven eyesight did not need the light to read the documents but Elrond liked the golden glow of the tiny flame . . . usually. Tonight he was beginning to find it annoying, although he suspected it was not the flame that was responsible for his present mood. He licked his finger and thumb, reached out and snuffed it . . . a pale column of smoke rose for a moment and then, even that dissipated and the room was lit only by starlight. He looked back at his transcription. 

_“……. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.”_

He rose from his desk, crossing the small study and opening the long windows to step out onto the small balcony. Below was Celebrian’s rose garden and, sitting in the arbour her mother and father had shared so often, was Arwen. Her eyes were fixed on the heavens and Elrond followed her gaze to find, as he knew he would, Earendil.

Was she thinking of her grandsire? Or was she, perhaps, thinking of two other lives that had been bound up with the Silmarils . . . Beren and Luthien? Was she hoping that Aragorn, too, was looking at that same star?

Elrond looked down at the deep blue dome of Vilya, bound in gold to his finger. For two thousand years he had waited for the ending of the Rings of Power. But now he wished that it had been another two thousand before the One Ring had been found. Then Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, would be long dead, and Arwen would be free of her vow.

_“……. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.”_

Elrond had longed to be free of Vilya, free to cross the Sea and leave this Middle-earth. It was indeed a dream precious to him. But if he were to have that dream the price was to be the life of his only daughter. Was he prepared to pay such a ransom? If Sauron were overthrown, and Aragorn made King he must hand over his daughter as bride to a mortal. And the golden light that she had shone into her father’s life for so many years would be snuffed out.

His eyes drifted out across the garden once more, to find Arwen looking up at him, her eyes filled with sadness and understanding. Tears slid slowly down her cheek and Elrond found his own face damp with silent tears that he had not even known were there. He tore his gaze away and turned back to the darkness of his study, intending to go on with his work.

At his desk his eye fell upon the cold and lifeless candle.

_“……. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.”_


	5. A Knife In The Dark

A KNIFE IN THE DARK

A log settled in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks and jolting Bilbo out of his doze. The ancient hobbit looked about to check if anyone had noticed that he had nodded off and both Sam and Elrond made sure to concentrate upon Frodo’s face for a moment, Elrond making a show of checking the pulse in one slim wrist. When he was sure that Bilbo was settled once more the elf rose and crossed to the hearth, adding a fresh log to the tiny blaze. For a moment the flames captivated him.

 

00000

 

The Hall of Fire was quiet, as it had been for many weeks, and Elrond had come here to find peace for reflection. The One Ring was on the move and with each tiny footstep destiny drew closer. 

Even when the hall was not in use a fire blazed here and the Lord of Imladris pulled a cushion from one of the benches lining the walls and threw it on the floor, settling himself to stare into the flames. A small smile quirked at the corners of his lips as he considered what anyone would think, finding their Lord so seated. It mattered not to him tonight. He felt the need of warmth and the soothing distraction of the flames. There was a growing unease in him that had nagged at the corners of his mind all day and with the gathering of dusk it had grown. Like all of his kind, he loved the night and drew strength from the starlight but this evening it did not bring comfort . . . only an increase in his disquiet; prescience bringing an irritation to his spirit that would not let him rest. 

The soft plop of a cushion landing on the stone flags at his side and the whisper of silk announced the arrival of his daughter. She settled wordlessly next to him, lifting his arm so that she could lean against his side, and he wrapped it about her, pulling Arwen close so that her cheek rested upon his shoulder. Like her mother, she seemed to know when he was troubled. That much, at least, she had inherited from Celebrian.

“You are troubled, Adar.” It was a statement, not a question. “It is the Ring, is it not?”

He glanced down at her. “How? Never mind. Elrohir never could keep anything from you when you pressed.” He felt her answering laugh.

Elrond continued gazing into the fire, his hand unconsciously stroking up and down his daughter’s arm. “Yes, child.” He paused and Arwen wondered if he would continue. Then she heard his soft voice above her. “So many threads converge that they have become a tangled skein and I cannot see which one to pull to straighten matters out.”

Arwen considered the embroidered hem of her sleeve. “Sometimes the threads can only be undone by loosening the knot so that it can be spread out and all the loops displayed. Perhaps Lord Elrond of Imladris needs the council of others in this matter so that all threads can be considered,” she offered, thoughtfully. She felt a kiss brush the crown of her hair.

“Perhaps.”

They sat, thus, for some time, father and daughter, considering the threads of their separate fates as they stared into the flames. Then the disquiet that Elrond had felt all day began to grow. Something was about to happen . . . something that would tear the threads asunder, never to be repaired. 

He straightened, pushing Arwen gently away as he rose, knowing that his mind was about to be assaulted by unsought for vision. She looked up in confusion at his unannounced departure and her eyes widened in understanding as her father’s grey eyes darkened and he halted in mid stride, his face blank as he stared off into some dreamscape where she could not follow.

 

Terror . . . longing . . . Ring looming . . . Warm metal on left forefinger . . . horror . . . five pale figures . . . merciless eyes burning . . . white faces . . . grand robes trailing in decaying tatters . . . tall crowns tarnished . . . sharp blades gleaming in gloved fists.

(Your sword. Defend yourself.)

Unfamiliar worn hilt in small hand . . . one figure advancing . . . knife glowing with pale light . . . suddenly bearing down.

(Down, child! A Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Strike, Frodo!)

Too late he falls . . . blade striking robe . . . Agony . . . ice white flame in his shoulder . . . falling . . . shadowed figure waving fire . . . pale figure fleeing.

(Take off the Ring. Take it off!)

Small fingers tugging . . . vision failing . . . fading . . . fading.

 

Elrond’s anguished howl of agony brought others running, in time to see him fold to the floor, right hand clutching his left shoulder as grey orbs rolled upwards and dark lashed lids fluttered shut.

o0o

He brought his eyes into focus on the dark beamed ceiling of his bedroom, aware of a missing passage of time. For some moments he took inventory of his body. His shoes had been removed and his outer robes. His shirt was unbuttoned. They had probably checked for injury to his left shoulder. They would have found none, although the flesh still held memory of the agony and when he struggled to sit up Elrond favoured it.

As soon as he made to rise Arwen rushed to help, sliding pillows behind him. When she made to fuss further however, tucking the covers closer, he waved her away.

“I am recovered, child. Do not fret. It has passed.”

His daughter pulled away, her face still anxious, and Elrond relented, reaching out an arm and gathering her in when she threw herself at his chest. His collapse must have been quite frightening for her. For several minutes he held her, rocking gently and stroking her hair until her silent tears subsided. Finally, she drew back, settling on the bedside and he brushed the tears from her face with his fingers.

Elrond looked up as the door to his bedchamber opened and his sons slipped in, their concerned faces settling to relief when they saw their father sitting up, apparently unharmed. They moved to stand sentinel at the foot of his bed.

“We thought the enemy had found some way to reach you,” Elrohir admitted, quietly.

“Not I. It is not I they have reached,” Elrond replied, sadly.

Elladan’s shoulders fell. “He has taken the Ring, then.”

His father rushed to refute the assumption. “No. It is not in His grasp yet. But it was so nearly. No. We have been saved by a little hobbit’s strength of will and Estel’s quick thinking.” Elrond’s brow furrowed. “Although where Gandalf is in all of this I do not know.”

“What happened?” Elladan asked, moving to sit on the foot of the bed, behind his sister.

Elrond strung the beads of scattered images together. “The Nine . . . or at least some of them, came upon Frodo in the wild. They willed him to put on the Ring and when he was in their world they wounded him. He resisted as best he could and I do not think that the wound was mortal.” Elrond’s hand drifted to his left shoulder, shivering as a cold chill ran through him, although he knew his own flesh had taken no harm. “Although how long he will be able to resist its poison I cannot tell.”

Elrohir moved to stand behind his brother, his hands gripping Elladan’s shoulders so hard that the twin winced. “Then we must send out riders to help them.”

Elrond’s answer was immediate. “Yes. But we must consider our course carefully. I raised none of my children to be fools, not least Estel. He will take them on routes less travelled and less well known and we must check them all. There are also only a few of our people who are able to stand against the Nine and they are not all gathered here yet.”

Elladan nodded. “Glorfindel has not yet returned at least.”

When Elrohir made to protest the Lord of Imladris fixed him with his keen gaze. “I will not go into this without proper planning. Much is at stake and we have a great deal of land to cover with few riders.”

His impetuous son would not be put off, however. “What if they come upon them again. Surely they will not withstand a second assault.”

When he saw his daughter blanch Elrond reached out to lay a hand upon hers before replying.

“Indeed they will not. Which is why Estel will try to hide. And we all know that he is very good at that. I seem to remember that he has given you two the slip on more than one occasion.”

Despite the situation, Elrohir grinned. “He learned long ago that he was no match for an elf when it came to fighting and that hiding was his best option.”

Once more, Elrond paused to consider that piece of information about his foster son’s childhood. Most of Estel’s battle training had been undertaken by his foster brothers and this particular titbit had not slipped out before. But there was the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye as he noted, “It is to be hoped, then, that he remembers that lesson well.”


	6. The Return Of The King

Elrond lifted the cloth from Frodo’s brow and dipped it in the cool scented water, wringing it out before replacing it. His attention was caught as a single drop of water fell towards the table, splashing upon metal.

Estel had brought the hilt of the Morgul dagger to show him yesterday and after the initial inspection Elrond had not felt able to touch it again. So here it lay. 

Its purpose had been served. Having delivered its poison shard to Frodo the rest of the blade had melted away in the dawn light and it was now harmless . . . no use to anyone. Elrond would arrange for its destruction later. This was definitely one weapon that would never be reforged.

The healer turned, brushing back dark curls before laying the cloth back upon his patient’s brow. His thoughts turned to another broken weapon.

 

00000

 

Elrond found himself standing before the long plain wooden box. How many times over the past three thousand years had he stood here? He looked down at the stone floor. Mortal feet would have worn it away in that time but elven feet did not weigh so heavily upon the world. Even so, his keen sight could make out the tiniest of indentations . . . Too many times. And yet here he was again.

A long fingered hand, the nails perfectly manicured, reached out to stroke the silk-smooth wood, now aged and polished to a deep honeyed brown. He remembered when it was still pale and new. Loremaster Elrond was grateful for perfect elven memory but Elrond, Earendil’s son, was not always so grateful. He smiled as he looked at the perfectly rounded nails. There had been a time when battle had broken and grimed them almost beyond redemption. Had he grown soft over the years? Would he be able or willing to take up such a weapon again?

The catch opened with a well-oiled snick and he lifted the lid. It was still there. Where else would it be? Who else would be interested in a broken sword? It lay nestled in its deep blue velvet, the razor sharp edges of the steel a contrast to the soft fabric that cushioned it. Sliding his fingers around the smooth hilt, he lifted it slowly. Only then did it become apparent to the casual eye that the blade had been snapped in two. Elrond hefted the broken sword in his hand. 

With only half its blade the balance was wrong but Elendil had allowed him to swing it once when it was whole and he remembered the feel of it. Then it had been a thing of beauty, if one could consider such a bringer of death beautiful. Soon it would be whole again, ready to meet out more death and destruction. Elrond sighed and returned it to its winding sheet. He was tired of death. 

For too many years now he had longed for the peace of the Undying Lands but he was tied to this place of death by the ring bound invisibly to his finger and by the blood flowing invisibly through the heirs of Isildur . . . the descendants of Elros . . . his brother. It was diluted by many generations but it was his brother’s blood non-the-less. If Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, came into his inheritance as a result of the destruction of the One Ring, the blood of Elros and Elrond would be united once more. And even that joyous occasion would be bittersweet, for it would result in another death . . . Arwen.

So many times in recent years Elrond had wished that the sense of duty did not run so strongly in his veins. Had it not he would have gone to the Havens with Celebrian and all his children and they would be safe and happy in the West. His daughter would have given her heart to some elven prince and they would go on together throughout eternity. But Elrond had been given the responsibility of wielding one of the elven rings of power and, as a result, his daughter had met Aragorn and now she would die. 

He sighed and closed the box, shutting the lid on death. But Death would not be shut away and it walked with him from the room. It strode at his side as he walked the hallways of the Last Homely House and it stood with him as he entered Estel’s room.

It was empty now, had been empty for days. But it still held something of Estel. It had been his room from the day he and his mother had arrived in Imladris, tired and grief stricken. Gilrean had been too deep in her own hurt to provide the two year old Aragorn with solace and Elrond had taken the wailing child from her arms, rocking him gently and humming a lullaby that Celebrian had sung to their own children. The child had quieted within minutes, tired grey eyes closing, one tiny fist knotted in the front of Elrond’s robe.

Aragorn’s foster father looked about the room. A cushion on the broad window ledge and a table nearby with a candle and a small pile of books was testimony to a favourite seat. Elrond smiled, remembering how many times he had chided a young mortal boy for trying to read by moonlight instead of lighting a candle. The young Estel had wanted so hard to fit in . . . and yet he was reminded every day that he was not an elf, by such simple things as having to light a candle when it grew dark. To be sure, the house was filled with candles, many of them lit. But they were not essential to those of elven sight. They were a decoration, like a vase or a painting.

Two dirty shirts lay screwed up on the bed. The ranger had stepped into the room only long enough to exchange one from his pack and the other from his back. Elrond made a mental note to get someone to wash them for him. Aragorn was away so frequently that his room was not checked every day. The elf turned to leave and his eye was drawn to the dresser where, across the corner of the small mirror, was draped one of Arwen’s kerchiefs. It was the one that the mortal had held when he and Elrond had discussed his betrothal.

Once more, elven memory replayed every nuance. Elrond’s first reaction had been anger. How could the young man that he had given a father’s love to betray him in this way? How could he let this heir to a throne long empty kill his only daughter? But then he had seen them together, their eyes filled only with each other, and he had remembered how that had felt. 

Elves felt such a love only once. If Arwen did not have Aragorn she would have no other and she would live through eternity with the loss. If they had never met it would be a different matter but the damage had been done and all that her father could do now was ensure that the mortal that she married would be worthy of her; no less than High King. And so now another path converged on the One Ring. Death grinned at him from across the room.

“Adar? Adar?”

Elrond turned to look at his birth son.

“Glorfindel has arrived. We are all assembled in the library,” Elladan announced.

Elrond nodded and followed him from the room, shutting the door behind him. Death waited patiently.


	7. The Shores Of Pain

THE SHORES OF PAIN

Elrond stood at the window watching clouds scud across the moon. In the garden beyond moonbeams danced, flickering in and out amongst the trees, whilst the breezed tugged at the first leaves of autumn, sending them spinning and dancing to the ground.

Across the lawn there was a glimmer of candle light in the library window. Someone sat up late, reading . . . Mithrandir or Estel perhaps? It did not seem so long ago that the Lord of Imladris had stood at those windows.

 

00000

 

Standing by the long window, Elrond watched grey clouds, pregnant with the promise of more rain, flow slowly above the valley. Behind him the library, filled with elves only minutes before, had now returned to its customary quiet, the repository of centuries of wisdom waiting silent and impotent. A soft shuffling sound intruded upon the stillness and the Lord of Imladris pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing the corners of his tired eyes, before turning to smile softly at the ancient hobbit hobbling slowly towards him.

“Good day to you, Little Master.”

“And good day to you, Lord Elrond.” The little figure joined him at the window, tugging a shawl more closely about his shoulders to hold off the cool air drifting from the glass.

Noting the movement the elf turned back into the room. “I was drinking tea, I believe there is a spare cup. Would you share it with me?” He led the way to a low couch by a small table, on which were set the accoutrements of tea. Bilbo followed slowly and Elrond waited for him to settle upon the couch, arranging a cushion behind the small back, before seating himself.

The elven-sized cups were rather large for a hobbit so Elrond only half filled one, handing it to Bilbo and offering honey. Bilbo waved the honey away, taking the cup in both his gnarled hands and for a few moments they sat in silence, sipping their mint tea. The elf could feel Bilbo’s thoughts gathering momentum and waited with a growing sense of dread. He had no need of prescience to know that the conversation that was about to be set in motion would bring his friend the bitterest of pain. 

“Is something happening beyond this valley that I should worry about?” The words dropped with a light plop into the waiting pool of possibility, sending ripples out into the distance. Elrond tried, in what he knew was a vain effort, to dam their outward eddies.

“Why do you ask that?” His voice was casual, the semblance of a smile playing upon his lips and he bent to take another sip of tea in an attempt to hide the falsity of the expression.

The ripples slid around his dam, joining upon the other side and moving inexorably onward toward the shore of painful discovery. Bilbo’s ageing voice pressed on.

“It’s not every day that the Lord of the Last Homely House gathers to him all the most powerful warriors of his household, in secret council. Then sends them out in haste and fully armed.”

Elrond’s faint smile was more genuine this time. “What a people you hobbits are for gathering information. You are a folk of contradiction. You take great interest in the minutia of the lives of folk about you but take no care at all for the world beyond those narrow confines.”

The ancient hobbit echoed his smile, although his tone was firmer now. “Well, this hobbit’s always been the exception to that rule and is now asking about that outside world. You haven’t answered my question, which doesn’t bode well. Is something happening beyond this valley I should be aware of?”

Setting his unfinished tea back upon the table, Loremaster Elrond leaned back in his seat and faced the small, lined features of Frodo’s uncle. “What do you know of the tale of the Rings of Power?”

Bilbo paused a moment, bringing his mind onto this new and unexpected path. His voice took on the singsong tone of one reciting a children’s rhyme.

“Three rings for the elven kings, under the sky.  
Seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone.  
Nine rings for mortal men, doomed to die.  
One ring for the Dark Lord on his dark throne  
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.”

He looked up for approval and Elrond obliged him with an inclination of his head. The elf’s mellifluous voice continued the poem.

“One ring to rule them all.  
One ring to find them.  
One ring to bring them all  
And in the darkness bind them  
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, filling the room, and Bilbo had to wait for their echoes to dissipate before he could continue his line of questioning.

“But what’s that ancient tale to do with today’s events? The Dark Lord of Mordor was defeated long ago,” he persisted.

Ancient tale and yet Elrond, Herald of the High King, could remember the events clearly. Once again he felt the weight of all his years in Middle-earth settle down upon him like dust.

“Defeated, yes. But not destroyed, for his Ring was not destroyed. He slunk away to lick his wounds and he is now recovered. He has gathered the nine and the seven and he seeks the three, although they are still hidden from him. And he is looking for his Ring . . . the One Ring . . . the ring to bind all others to him. With it he will dominate this Middle-earth and none will be able to stand against him.”

Bilbo could feel his feet being carried away from him on the road and he was not sure that he wanted to follow it further, for it seemed to lead into a place of shadows and fear. The journey was gathering momentum, however and he had not the strength to halt it or to step aside. Nonetheless he tried.

“But the One Ring was lost. It hasn’t been seen or heard of since the day it was cut from the Dark Lord’s hand in the last great battle.”

Elrond set his resolve and continued to drag the innocent hobbit onward, knowing now that there was no turning aside and hoping to get the journey over with as swiftly as possible. “And now it has been found. The Enemy knows it has been found and he is seeking to wrest it from its present keeper.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise and set down his delicate china cup, fearful that another such shock would make him drop it. “Found? When and by who?”

“By a hobbit of the Shire. One Bilbo Baggins.”

All colour drained from the ancient hobbit’s face and the elven healer watched with some concern, ready to intervene if the shock proved too much. One word escaped the pale lips.

“Frodo.”

But, as Elrond had hoped, Bilbo Baggins was made of stern stuff. The tiny jaw clenched and jutted out with determination. “And you’ve sent your warriors to fetch it here. My lad will have kept it safe. You’ll see,” he averred, confidently.

“I have sent the warriors to find Frodo and bring him and the Ring to Rivendell.”

Bilbo shook his head with a determined air. “No, no, no. I’ll not have Frodo dragged into this affair. It’s far too dangerous for him. And anyway, once you have the Ring he’ll be safe. There’s no need to involve him. I will write a note for your warriors to give him, telling him that it’s safe to hand it over.” His voice took on a desperate edge and then faded away as he saw the elven lord shake his head, sadly.

“Gandalf told him of its importance this spring and made arrangements to travel with him to Rivendell. Frodo set out to bring it here over two weeks ago and my people are searching for him on the road.”

“But, why couldn’t Gandalf bring it himself and leave my lad in safety?”

Elrond sighed. “It is difficult to explain and you will hear more of it in Council once the Ring is arrived. Suffice it to say for the moment that no-one of power can bear the One Ring and it had to be Frodo that carried it.”

Putting that mystery on one side for a moment, Bilbo returned to practicalities. “Well, at least with Gandalf at his side he ‘ll be as safe as he can be.”

Elrond’s keen grey eyes held his firmly. “Something has detained Gandalf and Frodo set out without him.” The elf pressed on, trying to get all the shock over with at once. “Frodo has been attacked and hurt upon the road and Aragorn is bringing him here as swiftly and secretly as he may.”

Bilbo collapsed against his cushion with a sob and tears began to gather in his pale blue-grey eyes. Elrond reached across and deftly unfastened the hobbit’s collar, putting the cup of now cool mint tea to his lips and pressing him to take a swallow.

“I am sorry, Bilbo. I had hoped to get Frodo here safely before I told you of this. But there, I think your unhobbit-like sense of curiosity was my undoing. After all these years under my roof I should have known better.”

And Bilbo continued to surprise him for he rallied, pushing the cup aside and wiping his eyes on a corner of his shawl. He gathered himself and sat up. “Yes, you should,” he censured, uncaring for the moment that he was speaking to a mighty elf lord. His nephew was in danger and he must be got safe.

“I’ll need a pony. If you will arrange it I’ll go and change into something more suitable for riding. Frodo needs his Uncle Bilbo.” 

When he made to rise however, Elrond laid a hand upon his shoulder to prevent him. The elf’s eyes were filled with sorrow. “No, Bilbo. You will only slow the riders. A pony will not be able to keep up with swift elven steeds.” When the little hobbit opened his mouth to protest further Elrond ploughed on. “And we do not know which route Aragorn will be taking. That is why I have sent out so many. You could find yourself travelling with one party only to find that he is met by another.” He felt Bilbo settle beneath his hand. “If you stay here you will be ready to greet him . . . a comfort and a familiar face amongst strangers. He will need that.”

“Very well. Although what comfort he’ll find in the one who bequeathed him this legacy I am not sure.” The old hobbit’s voice was thin and weary as the last ripples touched the shores of his pain.


	8. Grey Pilgrim

A figure came to stand at the library window, the dark flow of grey robes outlined against the light . . . Mithrandir. Elrond smiled. It would be him. Doubtless he would be trying to discover some way forward for their problem.

The healer turned away from the window, returning to his vigil at Frodo’s bedside. It was difficult to tell by the light of candle but Elrond thought he could detect a hint of colour returning to the cracked lips. He lifted down a tiny pot from the table and dipped his fingertip in its contents, smoothing the salve gently across Frodo’s lips. This little hobbit was a fighter. It was easy to see why the wizard was so fond of these people. They had an indomitable spirit.

 

00000

 

The tall horse skidded to a stop on the cobbles before the porch as Elrond hurried through the doors and onto the top step. Mithrandir, hair dishevelled and robes spattered with mud, climbed gasping from its back and Elrohir rushed forward to support him as his knees gave way. The white horse sashayed sideways behind him and Gandalf grabbed the mane gratefully for support with his other hand while Elrohir held him about the waist and draped the wizard’s arm over his shoulder.

“Frodo. Is he here?” Mithrandir’s voice was barely more than a cracked whisper.

Elrond glided quickly down the steps, taking the wizard’s face in his hands and brushing the tangle of wiry grey hair out of his eyes. 

“Not yet. But I have riders out looking for him.”

Gandalf’s skin was cold and slick with perspiration and his eyes showed the red rims of many days without sleep. The elf could hardly bring himself to consider what had caused such exhaustion in the istari and he uncurled Mithrandir's fingers from the horses mane, draping the arm across his shoulders to help his son walk the wizard up the steps and into the house.

Having delivered his precious cargo the horse whinnied once and turned, to canter out of the courtyard, neatly side-stepping an elf who tried to capture it. 

Within minutes Gandalf was ensconced in one of the large armchairs by the fire in Elrond’s private study, a rug over his knees and a mug of mulled wine in his hands. The Lord of Imladris settled in the opposite chair and waited patiently for the old wizard to catch his breath and gather his thoughts.

He had sensed the wizard’s wild determination as he crossed the Bruinen and fire, rug and drink had all been waiting when Gandalf arrived. Mithrandir leaned back in the chair at last, letting out a deep breath and Elrond took that as his cue.

“I was hoping that Frodo and Aragorn would be with you. How did you become separated?”

“We have a problem that I had not foreseen,” Mithrandir replied cryptically.

Whilst wizards had a tendency to be close mouthed about their business elves had a tendency to patience and Elrond merely waited, one brow raised in query. Despite the gravity of the situation Gandalf chuckled.

“There is no out waiting you, is there?” 

The elf’s reply was accompanied by a gentle curve of his lips. “After six and a half thousand years, patience is a gift that I do not have to work hard at. Although at this moment I confess that I am finding it a little difficult to maintain.”

Gandalf’s face grew serious. “Saruman has learned of the finding of the One Ring and seeks to wrest it for himself. He has held me captive in Orthanc for two months, trying to gain knowledge of its hiding place.”

For the first time in many years Gandalf saw surprise and fear cross the face of Lord Elrond of Rivendell but the elf quickly schooled his features to calm. “Saruman the White has risen against us? That is evil news indeed, although not wholly unexpected. I have sensed something wrong there ever since the White Council. I had not realised that matters had turned about that far, however. I take it he was unsuccessful.”

“In the gaining of knowledge . . . yes. But I fear for Frodo without my protection. I returned to the Shire, only to find that he had recently left and that the Nine dogged his footsteps. He escaped their clutches again in Bree and Butterburr told me that he had taken up with Aragorn. That much at least was good news.”

When Elrond merely nodded at what the wizard thought would be revelation Gandalf’s eyes narrowed, but he continued his narrative. “Aragorn and I have a long standing arrangement to meet at Weathertop if either is in difficulty so I raced ahead, hoping to find him there with Frodo. I arrived on the night of the third of October but I could find no sign of him and decided to wait, in case he had come by a more circuitous route than the road. Our enemy had also decided to wait there however, and I was attacked, barely escaping with my life.” He sighed.

“Not knowing whether Frodo was behind or before me I made for Rivendell to seek your aid. And now I find that you have already given it.”

Elrond arose and crossed to the window. The rain that had fallen steadily for the past few days had now stopped and a light breeze was rolling small clumps of damp leaves across the lawn outside.

“Frodo was three days behind you. He reached Weathertop on the sixth of October. He too was attacked but was not as fortunate as you.” Elrond’s hand reached unconsciously for his left shoulder and he lowered it slowly, pausing to consider the ring upon his finger.

Gandalf pushed aside the rug and joined Elrond at the window. “Is he dead? How do you know this if they have not yet arrived? And what of the other hobbits?”

Elrond looked across at him in confusion. “Other hobbits?”

Wizards were definitely not noted for their patience, although Gandalf evinced more than most of his kind. Even his was wearing thin now. “The other hobbits that were with him. How is it that you know of Frodo’s fate . . . and you have still not told me whether or not he lives . . . how can you know this and not know that there were three others in his company?”

“Peace, my friend. Frodo is alive. Although he has been wounded and I do not know how he fares at present. I did not know of the others because they were not within his line of sight when we were in contact.”

Gandalf sighed in exasperation. “In contact? How?”

Elrond held up his hand, dropping for a moment the glamour that he held about the Ring of Air to reveal its blue stone glowing softly upon his finger. “Through this. When he put on the One Ring I felt him through Vilya.” He lowered his hand, turning back to the window, and Vilya faded to invisibility once more. “It was most . . . disconcerting.”

Now it was Gandalf’s turn to show surprise. “I imagine it would be.” His pale blue eyes narrowed. “He put on the Ring?”

“Yes. Twice. The first time was in Bree and it alerted the Nine to his presence there. Fortunately Aragorn found him first. The second time was at Weathertop and there they managed to pierce him. He fought however, and they only caught his shoulder, but the blade they used carried the poison of their world and I am not sure how long he will be able to withstand it.”

Gandalf turned back to the room. “We ask too much of him. Hobbits are not made for such trials. And you have heard nothing since?”

Elrond shook his head. “Other than word from Gildor confirming that the Nine were abroad and that Frodo was alone on the road. Nine days ago I sent out riders north, south and west to aid them but the area is vast and the numbers of my people who are capable of standing against the Nine are few. 

Five days ago those riders that I sent west with Glorfindel returned saying that they had chased some of the Nine from the bridge at Mitheithel and that Glorfindel was going on to search further for them. I sent them out again to search in a wider arc north and south in case Aragorn had to turn far out of his way.”

The elf lord laid a gentle hand upon the grey clad shoulder. “And you of all people should know never to under estimate a hobbit. You, yourself, were the one who kept telling me there was more to these people than meets the eye.”

The wizard took little comfort from Elrond’s words, however. “So now all we can do is sit and wait.” He turned back to the fire and settled in the chair once more, staring into the flames. “And Frodo is injured. Have you told Bilbo?”

Elrond too returned to the fire, leaning his hand upon the mantle and joining the wizard in his contemplation of the flames. “He wanted to know why armed elves were being sent out. Under the circumstances I thought it wise not to dissemble. He will be better prepared if the worst happens. Even so, I believe that if Frodo dies it will be the end of Bilbo too.”

“How did he take it? Should I go and see him?”

“He was upset at first . . . wanted to ride out with them until I pointed out that he would only slow them down. Now, like the rest of us, he waits. I think he would welcome your company. Arwen sits with him at present.”

Gandalf nodded and rose. “You will send word to me if you hear of his coming?”

“The breeze will bring me news for it blows up the valley from the fords and I will know as soon as he steps into the Bruinen.”

At the door, Gandalf stepped aside to allow passage for one of Elrond’s advisors. “Elrond. There is a delegation of dwarves outside, seeking council with the Master of Rivendell.”

Elrond sighed and brought his mind back to more mundane matters. “Thank you, Erestor. Please show them into the large study. I shall be there directly.” 

Erestor paused and his lord looked up, questioningly from where he was collecting his formal mantle from the back of a chair. 

“They are a little . . . testy,” Erestor confessed. “The increased vigilance on our borders caused them some discomfort. It seems dwarven lords do not like being relieved of their weapons and having their hands bound.”

Elrond winced and settled the mithril fillet upon his brow. “Very well. I will see if I can smooth out their beards.”

More visitors. It would seem that the skein became more tangled with each passing day.


	9. Flight To The Ford

FLIGHT TO THE FORD

Sam let out a small exclamation as the elven healer brushed away the last of the dried poultice from the wound. The dawn light revealed a fine dry, pale pink line punctuated by four tiny sutures. Elrond prodded the wound gently, nodding when it showed only slightly more give than the surrounding tissue and no signs of heat or swelling.

“I shall remove the sutures. They are no longer needed.” He began assembling scissors, fresh dressings and salve.

Sam finally found his voice. “It’s healed so fast.”

Elrond smiled and bent to cut the fine threads while Arwen opened the window and the full glory of the dawn chorus drifted into the room on a gentle breeze.

 

000

Standing upon the balcony, Elrond turned to face into the light breeze and opened his mind more fully to Vilya’s whisperings. He was not mistaken. There was definitely something. Yes. He was coming . . . nearing the Fords. And he was being pursued.

The Lord of Imladris spun and ran quickly into the house. He found Gandalf in Bilbo’s room and stopped only long enough to put his head around the door and call Mithrandir’s name before he ran on, out of the doors into the garden and down the steps through the woods to the river foaming below. He did not wait to see if the wizard followed but he could hear booted feet behind him.

At the bottom of the steep flight of steps was a shingle beach, where the swiftly tumbling river bent around an outcrop of rock on the far side. Elrond ran to the river’s edge and turned at last, to see how far behind him Gandalf was. The wizard was just reaching the last flight of steps and Elrond decided it was safe to start. He knelt at the water’s edge, ignoring the cold hard feel of the damp water worn pebbles beneath his knees, and slipped his hand into the icy water.

The Master of Rivendell opened himself to the Loudwater, listening for whisper of Frodo’s crossing at the fords below. He was aware immediately of Mithrandir’s arrival, planting his staff in the eddies, the power it contained palpable.

There . . . Asfaloth running at speed. Frodo, faint and gasping for air. He crosses. Ashfaloth turning . . . “Stop” . . . hatred . . . strength gone.

Elrond shuddered as the hooves of the first Black Rider’s horse touched the Bruinen.

(Strength . . . Little One . . . resist.)

Sword drawn . . . weary muscles obeying the command to straighten . . . “Go back!” . . . “Go back to the Land of Mordor . . . and follow me no more!”

(Well done, Frodo . . .)

Laughter . . . harsh . . . chilling . . . shards of ice in his ears . . . Fell voices . . . “Come back! . . . Come back! . . . To Mordor we shall take you!”

(No, Frodo. Resist them. You are not alone.)

Strength failing . . .a whisper . . . “Go back”

Elrond glanced aside, only able to see the hem of Gandalf’s robe and the tip of his staff. “He is failing, Mithrandir. I am not sure he will have strength to draw them all into the water.”

The wizard’s voice was calm. “If he can tempt just a few, Glorfindel and Aragorn may be able to deal with the rest. And we can at least cut them off from him for a while. Then, perhaps, your people can help.”

The elf returned to his listening.

Deadly voices . . . “The Ring! The Ring!” Witch King’s horse . . . another step . . . two more riders . . . following. 

(No, Little One. Do not put it on. Resist them just a little while longer. Just a few more steps.)

Elrond was surprised by a final surge of resistance from the frail figure upon Glorfindel’s horse.

“By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair you shall have neither the Ring nor me!” Sword raised . . . defiance. Enemy raising hand . . . heart pounding . . . unable to cry out . . . sword snapping . . . hand shaking . . . enemy nearly upon him . . . Asfaloth snorting. 

“Now, Gandalf! It must be now!” Elrond cried, putting forth all his power; holding back the raging waters of the Bruinen for just the few moments required to build the necessary volume.

“I am with you, my friend,” the wizard’s voice called over the mounting roar of the river.

At this assurance Elrond released the torrent of angry water, feeling Gandalf’s power flowing past him with it, moulding, shaping, directing.

The three lead riders were swept away by the tumbling waters and the others drew back in confusion. Through Frodo’s failing eyes Elrond saw Glorfindel and a small group of shadowy figures bearing flaming brands driving the horses into the rushing waters, where they too were swept away by the angry waves.

Falling . . . roaring water . . . grey mist . . . darkness . . . 

Elrond leaned back on his heels and then accepted Gandalf’s hand to help him rise, his knees finally registering the discomfort of the shingle beach.

“My people will bring him soon. I must go and prepare.” He began to climb the steps back to the Last Homely House, with Gandalf in his train. The Ringbearer had arrived but the battle for his life was still being fought and the battle for Middle-earth had not even been joined yet.

 

00000

 

It had been a hard fought battle, not least by Frodo himself. When they had lain him in Elrond’s arms that evening the healer had thought it unlikely that he would be alive by the dawn. But he had lived through that dawn, and the next and the one after that. Now he lay in the deep healing sleep that Elrond had pushed him into after the shard had been removed.

The elf looked up as Mithrandir entered, and held a finger to his lips in silent warning, nodding to the small figure curled in a chair at Frodo’s left side. Sam had finally succumbed to exhaustion only an hour earlier.

Gandalf came to stand behind Elrond’s chair, looking down at the small form lying still in the bed. There was a flush of pink in his cheeks, not the high colour of fever but the healthy flush of returning life. Frodo’s chest rose and fell in light and steady rhythm, not the gasping and hitching breaths that had torn at all their hearts during those long nights, and when Gandalf reached down and touched the tiny left hand he found it warm, no longer wrapped in icy chill.

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged the corners of his tired eyes.

“Why do you not take some rest? You have been at his side since he arrived and even elves have limits to their strength.” Gandalf whispered. “I will watch him.”

“He will awaken shortly. I called him back a little while ago and he is rising to the borders of wakefulness,” Elrond replied. He checked Frodo’s pulse.

“I had hoped that Bilbo would be here to greet him when he awoke but he would not stay. I think he is fearful that Frodo will reject him.” He sighed and gave up his seat to the wizard.

Gandalf smiled. “Do not worry. They will make their peace. There is too much love between them to allow room for bitterness.”

“Still, it would be better if there were a familiar face here when he opens his eyes, and he trusts you, Mithrandir. This place will seem very strange and big to him.” Elrond nodded across the large bed. “And I think our little gardener here deserves some rest too.”

Gandalf nodded and began to light his pipe as Elrond rounded the bed and laid a gentle hand upon Sam’s brow. 

“Sleep, Samwise.”

The little hobbit sighed, his body relaxing further into the chair and the tall elf gathered him up in his arms and headed for the door.

“Come, Little Gardener. I think you will sleep more comfortably in your bed.”

As the door closed, from the room behind him, he heard a small voice whisper drowsily, “Where am I? And what is the time?”

 

THE END


End file.
